Outsider
by AryaTyrell
Summary: To pay for her father's crimes of treason, Lyanna Davenshaw has been sent from her home in England to live as a ward of the French state. But despite the friendships she builds and the affection she arouses of a certain bastard son, she must always remember her place as an outsider. BashxOC, MaryxFrancis
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, all! I am very happy to publish something after a seven-month hiatus. I have 10 stories planned out in my head, but once I sit down to write them, they just magically disappear.**

**I'm still very hesitant about this idea because it's been done so many times already (and _Reign_ has just started!) so I kept this first chapter short in an attempt to interest readers but not to bore them if they aren't. I hope you are the former! :)**

* * *

_**Lyanna**_

Skies above didn't open up that day. They reminded her of the grey clouds of home, of the constant storm that always seemed to be gathering but never thundered. It was as though the clouds had followed her into this strange land, this enemy land. They comforted her, and if she tried hard enough, she could imagine that she was simply on a ride in the countryside. The reality was quite different.

As punishment for her father's crimes of treason in the English government, she was torn from her home and sent to live as a ward in a stranger's house. She'd been bought and sold like an animal, doubly used as a peace negotiation with France. She wouldn't show fear. The English may pride themselves in their navies and their armies, but a daughter of the Anglo-Saxons did not show fear.

Because there are always far worse things to fear.

Sir Gavin, the knight escorting her to the French court, had hardly said anything once their barge had docked on the mainland. The only sounds she'd heard that ensured his presence was the steady clop-clop of his horse on the Kingsroad. She could tell that he too felt uncomfortable on enemy territory, even in peaceful times. Sir Gavin was younger than most of the knights; in fact, overseeing Lyanna's journey to France was his first assignment. She had thought him quite handsome, with flaxen hair and green eyes that danced when he was laughing. Privately she felt that it was a waste that he had chosen to become a knight- with his looks alone he could marry very well.

The sky was darkening steadily, the clouds turning into a dark bluish-grey. Far in the distance she could see a shadow of a dark, block-shaped structure; she looked to Gavin, who nodded. He'd confirmed what she didn't have to ask.

They had arrived.

* * *

_**Sebastian **_

The court was abuzz with anticipation. It had been several months since they had been informed that they were to be hosting an Angle for who knew how long, and many couldn't decide if they were excited or disgusted. It would certainly be a change of pace, having an Angle at the seat of French power, but the English were a great enemy of the French. It wasn't often that French people interacted with those from the British Isles, even in times of peace. Stories ran rampant of the barbarians that lived in the north, of those that still worshiped the pagan gods and hunted with spears.

Sebastian often heard these stories on the tongues of the ladies of the court, who would stand at feasts holding a goblet of wine, spreading them in hushed whispers and wide eyes. They always stopped abruptly whenever he entered the conversation, because ladies weren't to be seen speaking of such harsh things.

But now this prisoner would be something new for them to gawk at. No one knew if Gideon Davenshaw had sent a daughter or a son. If it was a son, the ladies reasoned, they could at least hope he was handsome. But a daughter, they said, would be fun to play tricks on, and easier to mislead.

Sebastian stood in front of the Main House with the family. It wasn't a formal event, but it was custom to welcome any addition to the court, enemy or not. A feast had been prepared to celebrate their arrival, though false smiles would be adorning those loyal to the state.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Henry shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

"They're late."

"What else do you expect from the English?" came Catherine's snide reply.

The words had hardly left her mouth when horse hooves sounded in the distance. Sebastian looked to the end of the family, where Francis was standing rather stiffly next to the queen. Once, a long time ago, he had wished to stand next to his half-brother, the brother he'd known all his life.

There were only two riders, a knight and a woman. They stopped in front of the family, who gazed back out towards them. The king spoke first.

"Friend or foe? Name yourselves."

"Friends, sire. I am Sir Gavin Chaya, knight of the Kingsguard of England. I bring to you the youngest Davenshaw girl to be your ward."

"Come forward."

The knight dismounted first before turning to help the girl, clumsily lifting her from the horse and to the ground. Their quick steps cut through the cool air as they approached. Upon closer inspection Sebastian found that the woman was actually a girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen. Sebastian was always intrigued by a pretty girl, and this one was no exception; she looked fair enough, with dark chestnut hair that ran down her back in smooth waves. She was wearing a simple gown, but the material looked nothing short of expensive. Nobility, perhaps?

"Welcome to our home, Sir Gavin."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Gavin replied stiffly. "I would like to present your new ward, Lyanna Davenshaw, the youngest daughter and third-born to Gideon Davenshaw."

The girl managed a curtsy. "I am honored to become your ward, Your Grace."

Sebastian almost laughed out loud. He knew that her words were empty, but here she was with a smile on her face and acting like it was a treat.

"Welcome to France, Lyanna Davenshaw. This is my queen, Catherine, and behind me are my sons Francis and Sebastian." Sebastian's heart swelled with his father's words before deflating. Did he _always_ have to come second?

"I am grateful for your kind hospitality." Her voice carried over the clearing, and Sebastian was surprised at her confidence. Surely Gideon Davenshaw wouldn't send his daughter, who was very much a woman, to be a prisoner in France. Surely.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for the positive feedback! I'm so happy you all like the story so far! :D**

* * *

**_Sebastian_**

Pity.

He'd never felt pity for anyone at the court, because there was no reason to; many were well-off, and many were well-married. But seeing the deadened look in the girl's eyes as she pushed her food around her plate caused the emotion to arise in his heart.

Because he knew what it felt like, to not belong.

He couldn't help but glance at her every so often, knowing full well that she'd never return them. Francis, who sat across from her, managed to engage in some polite conversation with her, but otherwise no one spoke to her. Sebastian was more unfortunate with the seating arrangements- the woman sitting across from him kept chattering on and on, never stopping for so much as a breath. It was clear she was trying to flirt, and under normal circumstances he would've done so in return. But these were not normal circumstances.

When the ward had risen, presumably to retire to bed, she had done so with the face of one heading to the Gallows. As she passed he caught her by the arm, but with the way she flinched one might think he had struck her. He hadn't planned it. It just happened.

"You are safe here," he said to her, green eyes meeting her brown ones. "No one will hurt you." It was the first time he'd seen her look at him, and she stood there, unmoving, unyielding, to his look of concern.

"I can take care of myself," was her stony reply as she jerked her arm from his grasp.

And then she was gone.

* * *

**_Lyanna_**

Another day.

She felt as though she was counting the days she spent in a prison cell, they passed so slowly. Her days were filled with the most mundane activities, and she often excused herself to bed straight after supper.

Her father must have truly hated her to send her here.

The sunlight filtered down from the large rose window that dominated the top of the Queen's Tower. Its glass was the clearest and finest a craftsman could ever hope to produce- because only the best was offered to the Queen of France.

Today that queen and her eleven ladies-in-waiting, chosen for their good breeding, fine manners, and gracious speech, were scattered around the room, sitting on padded chairs and cushions pushed together for better gossiping. They worked at their embroidery as a musician played the lyre quietly in a corner, their soft murmuring being the only thing penetrating the music. Catherine sat in the center, flanked by two women and a master craftsman who stood off to one side for consultation.

Lyanna kept her head bent towards her work, meticulously pulling the needle through the thread over and over again. Her hands fared much better when they were clutching the leathery straps of horse reins; it was only morning, but she had already pricked herself no less than five times. She knew she had to be more careful, but she was so bored by embroidery that she didn't much care.

She found that she didn't care about much these days, the feeling only intensified by being inside the French court. The feast held upon her arrival was an uncomfortable affair for everyone present, including Lyanna, even though it was held in her honor. The ladies all fawned over Sir Gavin, casting suggestive glances in his direction as he dined. She too attracted attention, but of a different kind. Whispers narrated her every move, wide eyes watching as she handled a knife and fork. Did they think she was some kind of sideshow, a new addition to its House of Freaks? At this thought she stabbed into the fabric with much more vigor than initially needed, creating a button-sized hole.

_Calm. Be calm._

She knew she should be grateful to the king and queen for treating her with such kindness, and she was- it was just no one else was. As she followed the Queen's ladies through the corridors to get to the Queen's Tower, all she could see were hands cupped around mouths as they whispered, smirks leering at her in the morning sunlight. When they had sat down they had all blubbered over her like she was a newborn child:

"Oh, Lyanna, you poor dear, let us show you the way the French sew."

"I don't know what they teach you in England, but surely it can't be the same as our way."

"Can you measure? I'll measure your thread if you like."

They all thought her some kind of ill-bred savage, as a lower-classed idiot servant girl. But she set her jaw and refused all their offers. They peppered her with phrases like, "Are you _sure? _I _really _don't mind," their voices going an octave higher on the emphasized words, but by then she was already deliberately bent over her cushion, determined to show them that she could sew just as well as any of them.

"Oh, dear me, Lyanna... what have you been thinking to let your cushion become so... tangled?"

She looked up to see Katlyn, the eldest daughter of one of the queen's cousins. She seemed to be the ringleader of the court ladies and always seemed to have a little sneer reserved just for Lyanna.

"Not of court gossip, surely," Lyanna replied. Katlyn's lip curled.

"Be mindful of your tongue, Davenshaw," she hissed. "Or you will be sent straight back to England in disgrace."

"My family is already disgraced, Lady Katlyn," she said curtly. "Perhaps your gossip is not up to date."

Katlyn's face flushed scarlet, and she was about to answer when another voice rose up above the others.

"Oh, bother, I'm out of thread."

Lyanna, happy for a chance to go, leapt to her feet. "I'll go fetch some more." She smiled at the woman who had spoken, whose name was Karen, or Sharyn, or something along those lines.

She returned her smile. "Thank you, my dear. I believe Nostradamus- our court physician- has the key to the linen storage. Tell him Lady Gracelyn has sent you for it."

_Gracelyn_, that was her name. A very southern name in Lyanna's opinion, but she seemed kind. Lyanna laid down her sorry excuse of embroidery on her chair and paused long enough to curtsy in front of Catherine, who nodded in absentminded permission for the girl to leave.

"Thank you, your grace," she said, dropping another curtsy and hurrying across the wooden floor as quickly as she could while taking the approved, ladylike steps. Her steps had never been very long to begin with, especially compared to the great lengths her brothers could cover, but now she was supposed to go even more slowly. _A lady must not walk, but _glide, the ladies had told her on her way to the tower. _Do not move your arms at your sides- simply hold them in place, and glide._

For heaven's sake, she was a human, not a swan. People _walked._ People even occasionally ran. But not ladies. Never ladies. Once she was out the door she returned to her normal pace, swinging her arms as much as she pleased.

She was halfway across the courtyard before she realized that she didn't actually know where Nostradamus' chambers were, if he had any. She couldn't go back to the tower and ask, because that would give the ladies more of a reason to snicker behind her back- and she refused to give them that satisfaction. So, left to her own devices, she turned down corridors on pure instinct only, quickening her pace as she went. Surely the court physician would have a sign outside his door. But as she walked she found no such sign adorning any door, or any sign at all for that matter.

Frustration was beginning to seep in. _Stupid filthy French castle without any signs- s_he turned the next corner in a huff and nearly ran into someone, failing to stifle a small shriek of surprise.

* * *

**_Katlyn_**

How dare she.

How dare that- that _ward _walk in the Queen's Tower and speak to her that way. She, Katlyn, was one of the two ladies-in-waiting that were directly related to the Queen, and therefore had some authority over the others. Perhaps words like that were allowed in England, but she was in France now. She would have to adhere to the rules of the educated, not those of her savage homeland... if they had had any to begin with. When they had met Katlyn hadn't even shook her hand, not knowing what dirt was still stuck under those disgusting fingernails she'd have.

But yet, as filthy as she was, Bash couldn't keep his eyes off her.

Katlyn sat across from him at the feast, and they'd talked- or rather, she'd talked. He listened and he answered her questions adequately, but his eyes would flick over to Lyanna's direction, sometimes more than once per sentence. But it wasn't love in his eyes, nor was it lust. It was something else, something that Katlyn couldn't put her finger on. But she was certain of one thing. Bash had never looked at her like that, at least that she knew of.

It was a strange feeling. Katlyn had never had trouble before keeping a man's attention. Many agreed that Katlyn Geoffrin was the most beautiful of all Catherine's ladies-in-waiting, and certainly the most captivating. She loved to flirt and she loved to charm, but she loved even more to do it with Bash. She had even fantasized that she and him might marry someday, because a bastard marrying royalty would legitimize him. So Katlyn saw no reason why he shouldn't just get on with it.

Until Lyanna came.

When Bash had spoken those few words to her as she was leaving, Katlyn heard the change in his voice. It had become more... heartfelt, as though he understood her emotions exactly.

_Which is impossible, _Katlyn thought stubbornly as she weaved her threads. _They barely know each other. _

Katlyn set her jaw as she bent over her embroidery once more. It was time people started realizing that she didn't play games. And when she did...

...she always won.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I noticed a sudden drop in feedback after the last chapter was posted, and I can only assume that you guys weren't a fan of it. Apologies. I do realize that the story has been going slowly, but this chapter will cover the half of the first canon episode of _Reign._ Hopefully this will redeem your faith in me and my story. Again, sorry for that last chapter. **

* * *

**_Sebastian_**

"In a hurry?" he asked as the ward put a hand to her heart. It was strange seeing her like this, especially after she had so harshly spoken to him at the feast.

"No, you just- you scared me." Her voice had become less breathy by the last word, hardening into that stony texture he was used to.

"Why are you wandering round the castle? I thought it was embroidery time for the ladies."

"What business is it of yours?" she replied, instantly bristling.

"Simple question, my lady," he said, his eyebrows pitched up.

"Don't call me that," she answered, a shade less colder than she had been before. "I'm looking for Nostradamus' chambers. I need a roll of green thread. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be on my way." Lyanna brushed past him, and Sebastian caught a whiff of lavender as she passed.

She was halfway down the corridor before he called after her, "You don't know where his chambers are, do you?"

She stopped and brought her hands up, fidgeting with something on her dress. "No. I don't."

"Go left down the next corridor that's split, and it's the first door on the right."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, maintaining eye contact for only a split second before she dropped her eyes to the stone floor. "Thank you. What is your name?"

"Sebastian. But call me Bash, everyone does."

"A debt must be repaid. Thank you, Sebastian."

_Sebastian. _It had been so long since a woman had called him that. "It is nothing... my lady." he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. He heard an audible sigh from the girl before her footsteps started again, slowly fading in the distance.

* * *

**_Francis_**

Francis gripped the sword tightly as he practiced with a phantom opponent in the armory, twisting and parrying as though he were in the thick of battle. The room was devoid of any noise, save for the occasional grunt and his quick footsteps as he dodged invisible blades. A shaft of sunlight shone in through the upper windows, creating rectangles of light on the stones. It was all graceful and unhurried, as though the blade was simply another appendage. As it should be in battle.

Francis loved to practice his swordfighting, but more so when he was trying to distract himself from something. Or in this case, someone.

Mary.

She was due at the castle in a few days, but he hadn't seen her since they were children. She'd been at a nunnery since she was ten, and he couldn't wait to see if she'd changed. If he'd changed.

If they'd changed.

They'd been betrothed practically since they were born, and the time was nigh for a royal wedding at the castle. He didn't exactly have a say in the matter, but many had told him that the nunnery had trained Mary to be the perfect bride. He wasn't all too worried- after all, his own parents had been wed in an arranged marriage, and they seemed relatively happy.

Slow applause suddenly echoed throughout the room, and Francis swirled to face the door. Bash stood there, grinning.

"Bravo, _mon frere._ Bravo."

Francis returned the grin. "You're late."

"Ran into someone on the way here," Bash said as he shrugged off his coat.

"Really? Who? I fear I may have an idea."

"Wouldn't you like to know," his brother teased as he picked up a wooden sword.

"It was a girl, wasn't it?" Bash had never been too good at hiding things, at least to Francis.

"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't."

"Was it Sophie? Gracelyn?" Francis asked, his eyebrows raising higher with every guess. "Katlyn?"

"Heavens above, don't mention Katlyn to me. She just about talked my ear off at Lyanna's feast." Bash assumed the fighting stance, his sword held at the ready. "Come on, let's start. I haven't practiced in ages."

But Francis stood there, smiling at his brother. "It was Lyanna, wasn't it?"

Bash lowered his sword. "How did you-?"

"I know you better than you think, brother." Francis mirrored his brother's stance, and they circled each other. "You've a terrible memory for names, save for pretty girls."

"Well, she certainly is an intriguing woman," Bash said stubbornly.

"Sebastian, I can only warn you to be careful. She's English, she's an _enemy. _What if she's spying for their king?"

"Enemy or not, I can assure you I feel nothing for her."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite."

Francis then jumped in and started, the room filling with the dull clunks of their wooden swords. Francis needn't have anything to worry about. Bash usually kept his promises, and this one would be no exception. But Francis knew his brother. It would entirely be a matter of self-control for him, because Bash was easily swayed by a pretty face.

And everyone knew Bash had little self-control.

* * *

_**Lyanna **_

She'd counted two hundred and six leaves before her eyelids began to feel heavy. Cool wind blew over her face as she lay there underneath a large oak tree in the forest on the castle grounds. She'd taken to retreating here when things at the court got too hectic, as they were today. Yet another addition was made to the court with the arrival of Mary, Queen of Scots, and her ladies-in-waiting. Lyanna had watched her walk up the sand path with Francis and had immediately felt uneasy. So this was the Queen that the English so hated. Many a time her father would come home, grumbling about this and that, and she often heard the words 'that damned Mary' on his tongue. Almost from birth Lyanna had been taught that the Scots were a savage lot, rampaging farmlands at whatever chance they could get. That was why, he'd said, the king had been so keen on taking her land, and bringing them under control.

But the woman who had so confidently approached the royal family looked nothing like a savage. She looked well-bred and well-mannered, with a kind face. She looked, well, queen-like. She was nothing like Queen Catherine, who was as cold as the Channel on a winter day. Lyanna had sat in enough embroidery sessions to learn of Mary and Francis' betrothal, and Francis seemed happy with Mary at his side as they walked up to the royal family.

Lyanna felt guilty for thinking Mary's kind as savages when the French thought her own people uncivilized. Mary had even smiled at her as she passed, and Lyanna had stared back, dumbfounded. _She just doesn't know who I am_, she reasoned. _That's all._ But she wanted to be friends. Lyanna had seen how Mary laughed and talked with her ladies-in-waiting, and she wished that she could be one of them.

Life at the French court was a strange transition from her previous life. Before, she would wake at five, start the fire, and begin cooking breakfast. Her father would grab a piece of bread on the way out to the King's palace, while her siblings squabbled over everything else. Then, her and her brother Finn would ride out to the fields and tend to them as needed. There was no time and no need for her to learn sewing, as she had done here.

But that was the thing. Time. She'd never been used to having so much of it. These days she would wake at five and start to pull on her shoes before she realized that there was no breakfast to make, no siblings to cook for. After morning sewing she had the rest of the day to herself, and she never knew what to do with herself. The closest thing she had to a friend was Gracelyn, but she wasn't exactly the type that Lyanna would spill all her feelings to. Gracelyn was nice to speak to during embroidery, but otherwise they never saw each other. Lyanna supposed the next closest she could call a friend was Francis, but even he seemed distant with her. Everyone was.

Except for the bastard son.

That first night when he'd grabbed her arm, Lyanna thought for sure he was just a drunk who wanted to bed her. But when she looked at him, she saw light green eyes that were full of concern in the candlelight. And he'd said those words to her, the words that almost sounded like a promise.

_But like all promises,_ she thought as she drifted off,_ this one is sure to be empty._

A branch cracked.

Lyanna sat up and hit her head on a low hanging branch. She groaned and clutched at the spot, which was now positively throbbing. She looked around and almost screamed; for the second time in a week, Sebastian had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He stood in a patch of sunlight, the rays bouncing off his dark hair. "Oh, it's just you," she said to him, catching her breath. "Stop scaring me like that, it's enough to give anyone a heart attack."

Her tone was light, but darkness had clouded his eyes. "You shouldn't be here," he whispered hoarsely.

"What-?"

"You shouldn't be here!" he repeated, pulling her to her feet. When he removed his hands from hers, her blood was stained on his palm; Lyanna couldn't be certain, but it looked as though he had paled. "Leave," he told her. "Before it gets dark. Go! Hurry! I'll distract them if I can," he told her, drawing his dagger.

"Bash, _who-?" _At these words a dark shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and she gasped.

"They're drawn by the blood," he said. "Your blood." She watched as he held the blade to his hand, slicing into his flesh. Drops of blood oozed out and splattered onto the dirt, tainting it a dirty scarlet. "What are you still doing here?! Get out of here, now!"

"I'm not going to just _leave_ you here-!" she argued hotly, but Sebastian cut her off.

"Christ Almighty, you're as stubborn as a mule! It's no wonder the English couldn't stand you! I said, _go!_" he roared the last word with the lung capacity of a mountain lion, along with a little shove pushing her in the way she'd come.

And she ran.

* * *

She felt beyond insulted.

In fact, when she tried to think of a word to describe how disgusted she felt, none came to mind. His words echoed in her ears as she ran through the thick foliage, pushing branches out of her face.

_You're as stubborn as a mule! It's no wonder the English couldn't stand you!_

She was crying. She wasn't sure if it was from the boy's words or from the branches that kept slapping her face. She'd been stupid to think him a friend. Perhaps everything he'd said to her before had been a trick, an illusion to get him on her good side. Perhaps all he had ever wanted to do was bed her, and move on to the next vulnerable wretch to stumble into the court.

The trees were thinning out now. She could see exactly where the forest ended and where the field began, and she launched herself into the tall grasses that guarded the nearby pond. Over her pants and gasps for breath she could hear a dog barking, and not long after, a woman's voice.

"Sterling! Sterling, get back here!"

The dog, Sterling, was now snarling at her. It was a great ugly brute, its fangs bared in a growl as Lyanna neared the stranger. She was sitting near the pond's shores, holding pebbles in her hand; with a start Lyanna realized it was Mary.

"Sterling!" Mary commanded again. "Sit! There's a good boy." She turned to Lyanna with a smile. "I'm afraid you will have to excuse Sterling. He barks at everything. Why, just earlier, he was barking at the forest." She patted the dirt next to her. "Please, sit with me. It is lonely here."

Lyanna, too out of breath to protest, obeyed.

"What's your name? I know you know who I am; I saw you when I arrived."

"Lyanna. Lyanna Davenshaw."

"Oh, you are the English ward. Correct?" Lyanna nodded. "Are you enjoying French court life?"

"It's alright. Your Grace," she added hastily.

"I suppose it took a long time to adjust," Mary smiled as she held another pebble to the sunlight. "Do you think Francis will like this?"

Lyanna blinked. "What, the pebble?"

"Yes. You know, he makes and decorates swords sometimes. A hobby, of course. I wanted to give him these, just to help. So do you think he will like this one?"

Lyanna looked at the stone. It was light brown, with flecks of darker brown. "It's very nice, Your Grace."

"I thought so," Mary agreed, adding the pebble to the small collection in her palm. "You and I are very much alike, Lyanna. I would like us to be friends."

"A-alike, Your Grace?"

Mary waved a dismissive hand. "You do not have to call me that. Among friends, there are no titles." She smiled again. "We are both strangers in a foreign land, are we not? Friends are hard to come by here."

"I suppose so, yes."

They were quiet for moment.

"Your Gr- Mary?"

"Hmm?" she asked as she held another pebble in the sunlight.

"You... you know Sebastian, the prince's brother?"

"Of course."

"He doesn't... he doesn't happen to have a twin, does he?"

"_Two_ Sebastians! Wouldn't that be a sight," Mary mused as she dropped the pebble into her collection. "I can hardly stand one of him. But no, he was born alone. Why do you ask?"

"He's... strange. One moment he's all charm and talk, and the next he's a different person entirely." Lyanna pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. "So I just assumed..."

"Bash has always been a mystery, even to his own brother. But please, let's not speak of such things. For now, let us sit here and find beautiful pebbles for Francis, as friends do."

And so they did. All the while Lyanna wondered how Mary could be so outgoing in a foreign place, while Lyanna had shut herself away from anyone else. She was a coward, she realized; Mary had arrived and had tried to make the best of her visit, and Lyanna had practically thrown a fit like a child.

It was sad.

And it made her want to go home, more than ever.

* * *

_**Sebastian**_

"Ah, Sebastian, Sebastian..." the wizened old man wheezed. "You drove away a potential sacrifice. Such good blood, too, good blood..."

"The blood you sought was mine," Sebastian replied stiffly. "The girl's was just as common as anyone else's."

"Do not be so sure," the man rasped. "You must bring her back, bastard. It has been too long since this forest has seen good blood."

"What, does English blood sound better to you?" Sebastian spat. "I'm not bringing anyone back here. I am no longer under your control. You will never see her again, do you understand me?"

"It does not matter the country. It matters the lineage," the old man babbled. "You are not aware of her lineage?"

Sebastian sighed impatiently. "She is the daughter of England's foreign minister. She has traitor's blood."

"Do not be so sure!" the man repeated. "Search for her lineage. Her blood is not common."

"Are you deaf as well as dumb?" Sebastian asked angrily. "She is innocent. She has no part in this. She wandered in here of her own accord, not because I told her to. I do not want another woman's blood on my hands."

The man's lip curled. "Very well, bastard. But know this- if you will not bring her to us, we will bring her. Do you understand?"

Sebastian stumbled back. "You wouldn't."

"Do not underestimate our power, bastard. We have many in the castle who could easily slit her throat in her sleep. But that wouldn't be fun, would it, now?" The man turned his back on Sebastian. "Remember, you have a debt that must be paid. It can easily be paid with this. And Sebastian..."

"...Yes?"

"Know that true love does _not_ conquer all."


End file.
